


The Only Scars that Bleed

by WanderingSummerBreeze



Category: Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 02:18:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10981293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingSummerBreeze/pseuds/WanderingSummerBreeze
Summary: The Garrison Commander (1x06) was an incredibly difficulty episode for me to watch. The lashing that Jamie took, was almost more horrific to watch than the final episode of Season 1. Almost.What if Sam and Cait sat down to watch that ep. in the comfort of home. Would Caitriona's feelings be similar to mine?





	The Only Scars that Bleed

I remember watching _The Garrison Commander_. I was curled up on the couch, my body close to his, as we dimmed the lights.

I knew what was coming. I was aware of it all through the story; I had read the script and seen the images of his back from set. But somehow, this was different. This was _real_.

_Crack_

When the first clap of the whip landed on his back, I flinched. But when the pain never ceased and the ripping of the flesh plagued my eyes, I could no longer tell the difference between the man I saw on the screen before me, and the man that held me tight to his side, whispering _I’m okay_ with every lick of the snakes’ tongue that sliced its fang across his flesh.

I turned my cheek into his shirt, the tears soaking through to his skin. His grip around my shoulders tightened and his arm ran soothing laps across my skin, but it didn’t stop the tears. Didn’t stop the sudden feeling of being there, as if in some other universe, watching my love take his lashings, while I shed my tears in horror.

I was overwhelmed and overcome with some grief I needn’t have felt. Sam shook me, calling my name, calling me back from some back-alley place of my mind. I could hear the distance silence of the television. A soft hum where once there was the revulsion of violence that filled my senses.

My whimpers turned to sobs as I felt my body lifted from the couch and taken away, like some damsel in distress. But I did not deserve to shed those tears. I hadn’t felt any pain, save the lashing of my soul.

Sam set me down in the softly-lit bedroom, the carpet prickling my toes. I felt his hands on my cheeks, urging me to open my eyes.

_Open your eyes, Caitriona. Look at me_

I knew that voice. I trusted that voice.

I felt my lids shift and slowly open. My eyes were in a fog of tears and darkness until they found the light of his smile.

He stepped back, pulling his shirt over his head, all the while keeping his gaze upon me. He steadied, letting the grey fabric fall from his grasp to the floor below. With a shallow nod to me, he turned his body, keeping an eye on me as much as he could until his back faced me.

I watched him extend his arm back, the muscles in his arms and shoulders rippling under his flesh. I took his hand, then, stepping forward. He placed my hand on his lower back, the skin warm under my touch.

 _See. I’m alright._ I heard him say.

My mind hovered somewhere between reality and fantasy, unsure of where it stood. I placed both hands on his back. He was hard beneath my fingertips, and yet soft just the same. I leaned into his body, resting my cheek against his back, my head lolling back and forth across the smooth skin.

No marks. No scars. No tear of flesh or bloody stains.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered against his shoulder blade, kissing him, loving him. “I don’t know what came over me.”

He began to turn, but I stilled him. I stood tall on my toes, kissing his neck and shoulders, soaking in his heat. Burning myself on his touch and welcoming the scars.

I darted my tongue out, licking from one shoulder to the other, drowning myself in his salty flesh. I felt him shiver beneath my touch, as my fingers travelled downward, encroaching along the waist band of his joggers.

My kisses journeyed along his spine, wandering off on side trips, through hills and valleys, along the muscles there. I knelt to the ground, kissing the curve of his back as it touched his buttocks. I lowered the joggers to the floor, and kissed him further, my lips gently touching the rounded flesh. I felt a hand come to rest against the side of my head, eager for a stronger connection.

His moans erased the snap of the whip; his fingers digging into my hair, blessedly stole away the sickening memory of his body crumbling.

I opened his cheeks, running my tongue from its highest point, then lower, before moving back up again, climbing from my knees to my feet, to trace up his masterfully sculpted body, to lick around his neck once more. He turned in my embrace, moving to steal my tongue before it had a chance to retreat.

He peeled my clothes from my body in aggressive tenderness, before reaching down to pick my body up, my legs entwining behind his buttocks. We kissed hungrily, needfully, for hours, desperate for each other’s taste. Desperate for each others’ flesh.

I felt a slice of cold rush through my body as I was placed upon the dresser top. My legs fell slack, accommodating his girth. It was darkness turning to light, when he entered me. It was pain turning to delight when his fingers held me tight against him. And it was truth over deviousness, that rushed forth when we climaxed against that wooden dresser top in soft cries, like kittens begging for milk.

I wept against his shoulder, feeling foolish and drained, yet somehow completely justified in my travels to a make-believe nightmare.

But he never made me feel irrational. He never made me feel absurd in my outlandish thoughts. He carried me to our bed, and made love to me again; the tips of my fingernails, I promised myself, the only scars that would ever mar his skin.


End file.
